trusted him without. His frame was spare but
suggestive of the long muscles of the New Englander which do not show
but which work on and on with seemingly indestructible energy. He
looked to her to be strong and tender.

She realized that he in his turn was studying her, and held up her
head and faced him sturdily. In spite of her drenched condition she
did not look so very bedraggled, thanks to the simple linen suit she
had worn. Her jet black hair, loose and damp, framed an oval face
which lacked color without appearing unhealthy. The skin was dark--the
gypsy dark of one who has lived much out of doors. Both the nose and
the chin was of fine and rather delicate modeling without losing
anything of vigor. It was a responsive face, hinting of large emotions
rather easily excited but as yet latent, for the girlishness was still
in it.

Wilson found his mouth losing its tenseness as he looked into those
brown eyes; found the strain of the situation weakening. The room
appeared less chill, the vista beyond the doorway less formidable.
Here was a good comrade for a long road--a girl to meet life with some
spirit as it came along.

She looked up at him with a smile as she heard the drip of their
clothes upon the floor.

"We ought to be hung up to dry," she laughed.

Lowering the candle, he stepped forward.

"We'll be dry soon," he answered confidently. "What am I to call you,
comrade?"

"My name is Jo Manning," she answered with a bit of confusion.

"And I am David Wilson," he said simply. "Now that we've been
introduced we'll hunt for a place to get dry and warm."

He shivered.

"I am sure the house is empty. It _feels_ empty. But even if it isn't,
whoever is here will have to warm us or--fight!"

He held out his hand again and she took it as he led the way along the
hall towards the front of the house. He moved cautiously, creeping
along on tiptoe, the light held high above his head, pausing every now
and then to listen. They reached the stairs leading to the upper
hallway and mounted these. He pushed open the door, stopping to listen
at every rusty creak, and stepped out upon the heavy carpet. The light
roused shadows which flitted silently about the corners as in batlike
fear. The air smelled heavy, and even the moist rustling of the girl's
garments sounded muffled. Wilson glanced at the wall, and at sight of
the draped pictures pressed the girl's hand.

"Our first bit of luck," he whispered. "They _have_